Once the food ran out, people began to drift away. Soon it was just Bettina, the hauptinspektor and I. Since we’d thrown the party, I felt we had to stay to clean up. I’d had more champagne than I should have but I didn’t feel like going home yet.
‘Time for bed,’ said the hauptinspektor, yawning, lounging back in one of the office chairs.
‘Yes, it is getting late,’ I said, clearing away the last glasses.
‘I’ll walk you both home. I could do with the fresh air. That’s the most I’ve had to drink in a long while.’
‘Well, it was your celebration,’ said Bettina, flashing a brilliant smile. ‘I’d be upset if you didn’t enjoy yourself. Lotte and I went to a lot of trouble, after all.’
‘Thank you,’ said the hauptinspektor quietly. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this. Nobody has thrown me a party since I was a boy.’
‘What about your other promotions? Surely your family or work colleagues did something for you?’ said Bettina, replacing the chairs to their original positions.
‘A couple of drinks with the boys after work, but nothing like this.’
Bettina frowned at the revelation and shot a quick look at me, as if to say, ‘Maybe you were right about him.’ I could see that he looked wistful, almost sad, but he quickly shook off his reverie.
‘Come on then, otherwise it will almost be time to come back.’
After dropping Bettina home in Altstadt, the hauptinspektor and I walked through Max-Joseph-Platz. I had been here many times before but now the majestic Königsbau, the royal residence that edged the square, and the Byzantine court church nestled alongside sat in the darkness, eerie reminders of the war and casualties of the recent bombings. The gutted façade of the National Theatre stood in front of me, destroyed in the bombings of the year before. As we passed the monument of King Maximilian Joseph, I wondered what he would think of the destruction of his glorious city.
Passing the silhouette of the main building of the university, desolate and damaged, made me think of Heinrich and all the times I met him under the beautiful domed glass ceiling that filled the atrium with light. Everything seemed simpler then. Now the world was turned on its head, the city a shadow of its former self. I missed those days and it made me ache for Heinrich. Feeling melancholy, I sighed.
‘Something wrong?’ asked the hauptinspektor, breaking the silence, a flicker of light glowing in the dark as he lit a cigarette.
‘It’s hard to see the city like this,’ I said, glad we had something to talk about. ‘How much more destruction before this is all over?’
‘I don’t know. I wish you could see where I come from in Silesia. Grottkau is a beautiful medieval town, perhaps as old as München but not as big, surrounded by the Silesian lowlands, river flats of the Oder River. I sometimes wonder if I will ever see it again as it was when I left it as a young man.’
‘Do you still have family there?’
‘My parents. My father has a furniture shop in the town.’ He drew on his cigarette, the end illuminated in the night.
‘Oh, does he make the furniture or just sell it?’ I don’t know why I was surprised that his father sold furniture. Perhaps I thought he had something to do with aircraft, like his son.
‘Both, although before the war, he was so busy he didn’t have much time to make furniture. I remember learning carpentry from him as a boy. He taught me how important precision and determined execution of each task was in ensuring the final product was worthy of the showroom floor. Sometimes my hands itch for the chisel, plane and saw. To have an image in mind and then be able to build it, give it form and a practical application is one of life’s great pleasures.’
I smiled, delighted to have an insight into what made this mysterious man tick. His creative flair, habit of thinking outside the conventional view and finding practical solutions was a gift. I saw it in his work. I understood that creative urge and only wished that I could bring my artistic desires into being. ‘I know what you mean. I feel that way when I’m taking photographs.’
‘I’ve heard from Bettina that you’re a talented photographer. You must show me some of your work. I’d love to see it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ It was his turn to smile now, white teeth flashing in the darkness. ‘What do you photograph?’
‘Anything. People, landscapes, architecture, any object of beauty.’ I thought for a moment, warming to my subject. ‘It’s not so much about the subject as my interpretation of what I find beautiful in that scene. It might be the way the light falls, the shadow, or the contrast of colours, shapes and textures.’ Cars moved slowly beside us, headlights covered with slotted covers, dipped toward the ground, barely illuminating the dangers of the pockmarked road in front, piles of rubble spilling from the kerb. ‘You would make a good subject,’ I wanted to say to him, but didn’t dare.
‘Ah, you are an artist at heart,’ said the hauptinspektor. ‘Why didn’t you make photography your career? From the way you’re talking, I assume you studied.’
‘Yes, for three years but my parents…’ I shrugged. ‘After losing Ludwig, they wanted me to stay in München and a position as a civilian auxiliary in one of the local military offices was the safest they could find for me.’
‘I see.’ There was compassion in his voice. ‘Maybe you could show me how to take a good photo sometime. Although I enjoy it, my photos never turn out the way I want them.’
‘Of course,’ I said, flustered, as my heart started pounding in my chest. Perhaps he was really interested. Clasping my hands together tightly, I turned the conversation around, wanting to take the attention off myself. ‘Did you work in your father’s shop until the war then?’
‘No. I worked there for a time after finishing business school in Neisse, managing the shop for my father, but my heart wasn’t in it. I had always loved machinery, so I trained as a mechanic, learning to build motors at the technical school in Breslau. Planes were my passion and I had been gliding and flying small aircraft for years at the Gleiwitz Flight School. I found work there as an instructor and site manager, repairing aircraft as well, until I entered military service in 1938.’
‘How did your family end up in Sagan?’ I was feeling bold now, bolstered by the champagne. I heard the intake of breath as he stopped to stub out his cigarette and I immediately regretted my nosiness.
‘My first posting was to the Sagan-Küpper airpark as an aircraft engineer. Inga and I were married and we had Eva. Things were already rocky between us but I thought that the move away from our families would do us good and for a time, it was. I rose to group leader and wanted to become a technical advisor but had to do my higher diploma in Berlin, Jüterbog, actually, for a year. My family was settled in Sagan and Walter was only a baby. By the time I returned in late 1941, before moving to my new posting in Lemberg, I realised that our marriage could not be salvaged. I only saw them a few times before coming to München.’
I shivered and plunged my hands into my trench coat. He was a family man in a broken marriage and the sadness in his voice made me want to comfort him in some way.
‘You’re cold. Here have my coat.’ The hauptinspektor stopped in his tracks.
‘No,’ I said, mortified. ‘I’ll be fine, maybe we could just walk a little faster.’ The flush of warmth from the alcohol had passed and the brisk night air of late October had only now settled into my bones.